


Princeling's Peril

by Dangersocks



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Cages, Cecearlos - Freeform, Heroism, M/M, Paralysis, Roleplay, Sexual Fantasy, team cecearlos 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2256786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangersocks/pseuds/Dangersocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The spoiled princeling has many enemies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Princeling's Peril

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jathis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jathis/gifts).



> This is not nearly as wonderful as **[Jathis'](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jathis/pseuds/Jathis)** stories of Earl, Cecil, and Carlos exploring the kinkier side of their fantasies. I have enjoyed reading those tales so much that they disrupt my thoughts while I try to be a functional member of society. 
> 
> The deviously elemental **[M Moonshade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade)** provided an editorial eye (we're still not sure which editor's eye, but _meh..._ ) Alchemist Carlos lives at her house, and Elvish Earl (he swears he's not an Elf) haunts my garden parties.
> 
> And we all love you Jathis, you crazy owl, you.

_The night can hold all sorts of terrors and injustices. The night is frightening, with dangers untold and creeping up on the unwary._

_The day, too, can be pretty awful. Like today --_

_Cecil breathes. He shuts his eyes. He starts over._

_The night…_

-

 

The night is a dark, deep velvet. A kingdom sleeps, silent as a tomb. There are no whimpers nor moans. Those have been muzzled for hours, no longer required for play tonight. The pets sleep in their cages; the prince to his bed. The moon in the sky has become the only eye watching, appreciative of their placement. All is as it should be. All are where they should be.

 

But then the moon loses its place. The shining orb is interrupted by a shape at the window. The watching eye becomes eyes, sharing the responsibility of spying. A click, the smallest of sounds. A gradual shift of balance. Miniscule changes, unnoticed by all but the most sensitive.

 

Fortunately, little slut alchemists are very attuned to their surroundings, and a pair of dreamy eyes roll open and blink. A gagged mouth twitches. Then context arrives when the alchemist beholds the intruder.

 

A knife. An enemy. A princeling asleep. The alchemist shifts but knows he can’t move. The rope is still strong despite being silken soft. He’s earned the newer, more comfortable bindings, but he cannot make them serve him now. That is not their function.

 

The gag also hinders a warning. He apparently chews too loudly, so he no longer gets to speak or breathe freely. Still, his muffles struggle to be heard and he awakens his companion. The elf has keen hearing and rouses at the alchemist’s squeaks. One glance at his fellow slut has him recognizing the danger too.

 

Certainly they have been noticed. The stranger shifts, peering at the bed, but the princeling is dreaming. He is fucked out and enjoying his deep sleep. The muzzled playthings are not a threat and the assassin is free to act as he will. He wordlessly pulls a sigil and lays it on the sheets. The alchemist and the elf know that it renders any within that space into a helpless paralysis of limbs, while maintaining feeling in nerves. They are very intimate with that branch of magic.

 

Is this political? Is this revenge? Is this theft or inspired by morals? No one will ever know. The dark-skinned slave casts a worried, desperate look at the elf prince. And the elf agrees: this is _Master._ The elf has freed himself once, and by being inhuman he is not bound by human limitations.

 

A flick. A twist, and his leg is free. He kicks decisively at the edge of his cage and not only does the door break free of its hinges, it is also loudly knocked clean off of the structure and catches at the treacherous intruder’s feet.

 

“You fucking --”

 

The princeling tries to shift, coming awake to the unfamiliar presence but finding himself unable to do anything about it. When he realizes the unwanted proximity between himself and the unknown element, his fixed gaze is focused on the unnaturally fast Elf throwing himself bodily at the shape. They tumble out of the startled princeling’s sight.

 

The Elf is vicious, but his arms are still tightly bound behind him and his surprise only grants him a quickly fleeting advantage. He knocks the attacker back but fails to disturb the sigil on the blankets. The princeling is bound over his sheets, entangled by magic as he begins to silently panic at his inability of seeing the battle that is taking up his floor. There is a knife that glitters with reflected moonlight. There are snarls and swears from the two deadly opponents. There is blood and loose limbs -- sacrifices made to untangle hands from leather bonds.

 

The remembered training of the warrior allows the elf to disregard his injuries in order to take possession of the blade. He discards it immediately, throwing it back at his fellow slut with an accuracy that cuts clean through the other’s bonds within his cage. But the technique costs him. Large, angry hands seize the elf, one crushing a defensively held wrist that is slick with elven blood, and the other grasping hair and jerking back a fair head.

 

“You little naked bitch,” growls the assassin. “You’re so broken for your master’s cock that you’ll die for the fucker?”

 

The elf grunts, seething as the exacerbated cuts along his lithe frame are worsened by the handling.

 

“Nothing to say, you little rat? Your spoiled prince is still helpless and you’ve just made this a thousand times worse for him.”

 

“No,” splutters the elf. It comes across as a simple disagreement, rather than a helpless plea.

 

Twisting a gloved hand into the roots of the elf’s curled hair, the killer snarls, “No?”

 

“No,” repeats the slave, with a gasp. “You’ll have to take it up with the half-elf.”

 

Before his assailant can demand clarification, the elf seizes the assassin’s lapels and then drops his weight, pitching a bare foot into the other’s groin before bodily hauling him over. The throw is as calculated as the knife had been. The assailant tumbles towards the cages, earning bruises as he lands. The assassin braces against a metal enclosure, scowling as the elf gingerly picks himself back up. He is pale and wounded, yet not concerned that the assassin will rise, even though he has nothing to stop his enemy from butchering the little fuck toys before moving on to performing unspeakable things to their Master --

 

The silk rope suddenly slings around the man’s neck as if by magic. The assassin instinctively brings his hands up to clutch at the noose but it is already too tight to pry free. He rakes his fingers against his assailant and finds the bars of a cage protecting the slut who has him. His hands are not small enough, nor coordinated in his desperation, to even touch the half-elf.

 

If the alchemist could speak, he would tell the attacker of how he has not the privilege of gaining entrance into this room. Nor does he have permission to touch, let alone hurt the elf slave. That is for Master.

 

And speaking of Masters…

 

The alchemist looks up for instructions, but the princeling is unable to move. He is unable to speak. The elf does not go and remove the sigil. Instead, he steps carefully over to the box of Master’s toys. “I’m taking liberties. But 'one million years dungeon' just isn’t the right punishment for you…”

 

\--

 

Earl stares at Cecil.

 

“What?” squawks the radio host. “I had a lot of time to kill while I waited for them to release you.”

 

“I just...I don’t even know what to say.”

 

“You could start with ‘thank you, Cecil, for productively passing the time at the bowling alley where Carlos almost died that one time and where I was being critically tended to’…”

 

“Okay,” Earl raises a hand -- only one -- to concede the point. “You didn’t cause a scene and you were very creative. But Cecil… _naked Elf fighting?!”_

 

“For the spoiled princeling’s life!”

 

Earl shifts in his seat, skin still concerningly a washed out white. He looks in dire need of the bath that Carlos has waiting for him at home. “I’m also amazed that there was all this drama and you didn’t even create a sex scene.”

 

Earl’s right arm is tightly bound to his ribs, but that kind of bondage is not making Cecil feel aroused. The host starts the engine of the car, musing. “I was too worked up to think sexy thoughts. I really was concerned. All my intern would tell me was that you were injured enough to require a doctor. The viscous horror out of Radon Canyon --”

 

“Hardly larger than a spider-wolf,”  Earl leans back into his seat. “And it was probably a fluke that it was after you at your station. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but can we talk about your story instead of today?”

 

Cecil reaches over to squeeze the Scout’s knee. “Easily, my brave elven warrior. Would you like an ending where the spoiled princeling rewards such a loyal rescue, or perhaps one where he punishes the little slut for taking liberties with the enemy?”

 

“Not to mention damaging the cage.”

 

“That’s right!” gasps the radio host. “And he destroyed the pretty bonds given to the good little toy alchemist.”

 

Earl tries not to snort as he leans into his seat, basking in the comfort of the daylight and his boyfriend’s indignant decibels. “I’m glad you’re okay, Cecil.”

 

“And I’m glad you’re not dead,” Cecil counters. “Carlos called you when the horror made its way towards my station, didn’t he?”

 

“I reserve the right to remain mandatorily silent. Also, he knew I was in the area.”

 

“So many of you are going to the dungeon,” coos the driver.

 

“You really are spoiled.”

 

Earl breathes. He smiles and shuts his eyes, trusting Cecil to get him home. Trusting the awful day to be replaced by velvet nights.

 

With pretend princelings and imagined perils.

 

And for the hell of it, even elves and alchemists.

 

  
  
  
  



End file.
